Inspired by Ms. Professor Girl, Some Things I Do Not Like

Water building up under my kneecap.

Indoor plants whose leaves are so dusty, they ruin whatever pleasure you might have gotten from them. Violets have to be the worst.

At the front of the theater concessions line, when the popcorn boy asks you if you want the next size up for only 50 more cents, and then the cola girl asks you if, for only 25 more cents, you want a medium instead of the small you ordered. They have been trained to ask you this, no less than they were drilled in washing their hands after using the rest room or removing a butter-substitute from maroon polyester. When their training lapses, or if they choose after months on the job to allow it to lapse, on that day when they think no one is listening and they allow your simple order to remain that way, their youthful manager—a former popcorn girl or boy, a ticket-taker, the young man or woman who now gets up on a ladder after the last show begins to change titles on the outdoor marquee—will threaten them with reprisals.

Remember that bumper sticker, “Mean People Suck”? Well, I agree.

The thought of veal.

People who take credit for the wonderful and sometimes accidental successes of others.

Until the national Do Not Call List, phone solicitations. Before the registry was available, a man I know would listen politely until the moment came when he could say he was not interested. He gave himself 15 seconds to do this: It became a sort of competition with himself, to remain polite while aggressively waiting for his opening. He discovered after hundreds of calls that he became hyper-aware of the rhythms of speech and breath, and this allowed him to treat most conversations on or off the phone from then on like intricate ballets. If a caller did not thank and wish him goodbye after his first refusal, the man would say calmly, “You know I’m naked, don’t you?” This might cause a slight pause as the caller wondered if he or she had heard right. It might end the call. If the caller persisted, however, my friend would add, “Shall I tell you where I’m touching myself?” and then “Shall I tell you where I’m touching myself?” in a continuing verbal loop. This usually took care of things.